


skin & skin

by ceraunos



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Rough Sex, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceraunos/pseuds/ceraunos
Summary: winter prompt fill for 'bah humbug'.ft. concerned gates, silver being silver and a touch starved Flint





	skin & skin

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [ this post ](http://flintsfancyscaffcaff.tumblr.com/post/181221572078/three-millionth-flint-based-thought-of-the-day)by flintsfancyscaffcaff. also by request from zwergenmaedchen x

Flint’s hand curls into the back of his hair, fingers brushing fragile skin at the base of his skull. His eyes close, squeezing shut as he wills his mind to exile his fingers from his body, to let them, just for a moment, belong to someone else. It doesn’t work, but he shivers at the sensation nonetheless. He runs his knuckles down the creased spine of a book, open at the desk in front of him and sighs, just slightly.

‘Um,’ Gates coughs. ‘Captain?’

Flint’s eyes fly open. He almost can’t quite bring himself to remove his hand from his neck.

‘What?’ he snaps.

‘The men were wondering if, um, it might be possible to have a small celebration. For Christmas time.’

‘Christmas?’

‘It would only require a small cut from the ship’s supply, a share or so of drink, a little extra rations. They’ll make the rest of the merry themselves, I’m sure.’

‘We’re in the middle of the fucking ocean. It’s hot enough to melt tar, why the fuck are they thinking about Christmas?’

‘It is only a couple of days away, roughly.’

Flint feels something inside him stop.

‘Already?’

Memory comes in a freezing swell, seizing at his chest with cold hard grief. It is a flood of sensation; remembrance of warm fires, spiced sweetmeats and Thomas pressed tight against every point on his body, flushed skin touching infinitely. His throat catches, choking on breath. It surely can’t be two years since, and yet Flint knows, with horrible certainty that it must be. He is already finding he can’t remember exactly what Thomas tastes like under his tongue, what his hands feel against him. It is with horror that even Thomas’ voice feels like a ghost of a whisper, distorted and faded by time and distance.

For a moment Flint doubts everything, wonders what exactly it is he’s trying to achieve in Thomas’ name while he is still rotting in Bethlem – thinks that surely it would be better to find his way back to London any, by any means, steal Thomas away from that place, instead. Then he remembers: Thomas is dead. Whatever might have been possible is gone.

‘Captain?’

Flint looks up as Gates’ hand falls heavily against his own, and he realises, only belatedly, that he had been stroking the book again, somewhat frantically this time. Gates’ eyes lock onto his, and the slight softness in them loosens something in Flint’s jaw. Gates’ hand shifts, just a little, and the unexpected heaviness of it, firm against his, sends an unwanted warmth through Flint.

A sting of bile hits the back of his throat and he pulls away as if Gates had stabbed him. It takes all his concentration to suppress the trembling shudder that courses through him.

‘Alright,’ he grits out. ‘One evening. Normal watches still apply.’

‘Are you – Do you want to join us?’

‘No.’

Gates leaves, with a lingering look, and Flint sinks to his knees. Absentmindedly he presses a finger to where Gates’ touch had been.

 

~

 

The second roar of men rises outside, jeers and celebrations rolling like thunder across the deck. The sound of a barrel being emptied is followed by a drum beat on it’s hollow lid, a new shanty starting up with drunken enthusiasm.

Flint sighs, turns over a new page, dips his quill in ink and goes back to his maps of black lines and worn markings. It’s become somewhat of a tradition, the Christmas celebrations on the walrus; he’s known men join the crew only to experience it. They haven’t these weeks at sea for a long few years now though, and Flint half expected them to have forgotten. He still isn’t sure how, in the midst of everything, they remember the date anyway.

Last year he spent the solstice within white walls, flagstones and a pretence of home, bathed in a familiar almost silence that sits somewhere between peace and pain. They’d had sex, Miranda and him, for the first time in months. Afterwards he couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

The door knocks open and Flint starts. When he looks up he entirely expects Gates to be standing there until he remembers that, just like everyone else, Gates is dead by his hand. Flint chokes on nothing, Silver coughs.

‘You’re not joining us?’

Oh God it’s so familiar. Silver can’t possibly know, can’t understand the weight of those words, but Flint wants to send him out, wants to hurt him, anyway. It would be so easy, a few sharp words pointed in the right direction, and Silver might for once leave him alone; let him mark this tradition appointed day of self-flagellation in solitude.

‘I don’t celebrate,’ he says instead because some part of him, deep and hurt, is tired of this state of being.

‘Neither do I.’ Silver shrugs.

There’s an impasse when Flint knows Silver wants to say something else, but is waiting for him to response. Flint gives him nothing.

‘Did you need anything?’ Flint says, after too long pointedly ignoring Silver hovering has passed.

‘Let’s celebrate.’

‘I told you, I don’t.’

‘And I told you, neither do I.’

There’s something about Silver’s voice. The way it’s almost dropped but not quite, the hint of something more being unsaid, that leaves Flint faintly hot, and a little nervous, under his skin. This is the endless game they play, the half-truths and unspoken acknowledgements of something  _ else. _

It’s hardly a surprise, then, when Silver takes his next move before Flint even has time to formulate a reply. He perches on the corner of Flint’s desk, far enough away that Flint would have to move to be in reach, yet close enough for the casually draped leg to feel somehow dangerous. There’s a heat, that Flint knows isn’t real, crawling over him at the proximity of it.

Silver pours himself a drink into Flint’s mug and sips. He shuts his eyes, swills the liquid around his cheeks in a way that sets Flint’s teeth on edge.

‘This isn’t ship’s rations.’

Flint shrugs.

‘You  _ are  _ celebrating.’

Flint looks away. He won’t give Silver the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s crumbling at the edges.

‘Or…’ Flint shuts his eyes, because he knows that tone of voice; knows that Silver’s seen him anyway. ‘There is more than one reason for drinking strong wine.’

The softness of Silver’s touch is unexpected. He brushes so unbelievably lightly along Flint’s shoulder with his knuckles that Flint thinks he could be imagining it. Except that when Flint turns, just enough to see, Silver is leant across the table his breath against Flint’s cheek.

‘If you don’t ask, I won’t,’ Silver whispers. He’s so close that Flint can almost taste the words, and a pre-emptive shudder wracks through his body. It’s too much, he’s too close to loosing any control he has on whatever this is; for the sake of any future he needs to tell Silver to leave and yet when Silver leans ever closer, hand curling around Flint’s thigh, a sudden, horrifying sob escapes him instead.

Silver squeezes and Flint’s head tips back, unbidden. His lips move in the shape of stop but no sound comes. Then Silver is sliding into Flint’s lap and their belts are clattering to the floor and Flint can barely see for the rush of  _ too much  _ that’s coursing through him.

‘Tell me you don’t need this. I’ll stop.’

Flint stands, flips them, pushes Silver against the wall so fast he hardly knows he’s doing it.

‘Don’t you fucking stop,’ he hisses.

His whole body is shaking with need, his hand barely steady enough to tip lamp oil onto his fingers, quaking as he coaxes Silver open. Silver sighs as Flint fucks into him, too fast and too frantic to be anything but desperately over stimulating. Flint comes with a pained howl, both too early and not soon enough. Silver spills onto his own palm moments later.

When Silver touches him, later, with a damp rag, it is like a thousand tiny embers burning at his skin, horrible and lovely at once. He wants to run from the touch and curl into it and instead chooses to lie still and pretend to be far into the sleep that will not come. Silver is gone by the morning, and they don’t speak of it, except that they both know it will happen time and time again before they are done with each other. Flint cradles a ghost somewhere close to his ribs and lets guilt swim within his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> ... this wasn't the most festive of fills whoops 
> 
> i can't believe we're like 2/3 through the month, if anyone wants to join in with the winter prompts the list is [here](http://ceraunos.tumblr.com/post/180381811328/black-sails-winter-prompts). x


End file.
